Seeing as my muse in all her varied incarnations has an affinity for boulders, I thought I'd gift her one all of her own to hide under. That way I might be able to grab the elusive creature by the scruff of her neck when she retreats on me.

For roleplay purposes, I have posted as Leoba, Culanir, Maelgwn, Belethrant, Marlin_Ironclaw, Wulfnoth, Milady and have Karhusoturi in the pipeline. Sometimes I wander about in the clothing of twilight_maiden and also post for thread editing reasons as LondonGuild and The_Players

Last edited by Leoba on Wed Sep 15, 2004 1:38 am, edited 1 time in total.

Itinerant bard; occasional barmaid or waitress when she can get the work. Honest and fiercely loyal to her friends, whom she would unquestioningly defend to the death. She can take a great deal of hurt herself and still be standing but treachery direct at those she cares about will cause her to teeter precariously on the edge of losing her calm and thus leave her judgement impaired. A talented musician, she can support herself by playing and singing from tavern to tavern. She mastered reading in the Common Tongue and can manage to speak a few rusty phrases of Rohirric but she never got on with the Elvish languages, despite her best attempts to learn. She can sew passably well, when she can be bothered to turn her mind to it. And likewise she can cook, but only if she concentrates; once her mind becomes embroiled in poetry or song things will burn! She carries the sword, ‘Angthalion’, which she inherited from her grandmother, although she still struggles to master the talent required to use it to best effect. She is far more confident and skilled as an archer and owns a simple ash longbow and a quiver full of arrows with woad-dyed fletchings.

Appearance: Chestnut brown hair, waist length, wavy and somewhat unruly and so usually plaited into a single braid. Emerald-green eyes. Clothing: This varies of course. On the road she wears male garb, for ease and comfort; tunic, hose and hood (wool against the cold, linen in warmer weather). Her ankle-boots are well-worn and comfortable and about her shoulders is cast a dark blue woollen cloak pinned at the neck. Otherwise, her attire is more feminine. Either plain homespun workday gowns or, for best, a dark green silk embroidered at neck, hem and sleeve with gold thread and with a silver girdle fashioned in the shape of interlaced ivy leaves.

What has she got in her pocketses: About her neck she wears the friendship amulet of Gil-Galad, given to her by Dirk on the occasion of their first meeting. Her fiddle always goes with her too; it’s battered and old but has seen her through many a troubled time and she would not part with it now. She greatly treasures a small gilded harp of elvish design but crafted by the dwarves in the Second Age, gilt with gold and carved with the likenesses of songbirds. It was given to her by Dirk from the treasuries of Carn Dûm. On the middle finger of her right hand she bears Fëacenta, the twin-stranded silver ring which she was given with her sword, and on the finger next to it, the sapphire-set ring she was given in Dale. In place of an eating knife she uses an Elven dagger, won from Bardhwyn in a riddle competition, and which hangs fittingly on either girdle or belt. Otherwise she has nothing more than the useful odds and ends in her pack, among them a small whetstone, a short length of rope, a few consumables, a wooden bowl and cup and a well-worn horn spoon.Mount: ‘Moonlight’, a pure white gelding ‘recovered’ from a band of thieves in Eriador (named as cheesily as possible, bearing in mind the name of SB’s horse

Background: It was 3001 of the Third Age, the year that the shadow of Mordor lengthened across the fair and verdant land of Ithilien, when Leoba was born. She was the youngest child and, after four boys, a much longed for daughter to Cynehild of Rohan and her husband Caranthir, a ranger of Ithilien. The young family passed their early years dwelling on the eastern banks of the mighty Anduin, just across from the bustling port city of Pelargir. Caranthir was frequently absent from home, for his duties took him to the defence of the Harad road at the Poros crossings as well as going as far north as Osgiliath, and so Cynehild for the most part brought the children up alone. There Leoba was raised in the company of her older brothers; Culanir, Carandil, Calion and Talagir. Cynehild tried her utmost to equip Leoba with appropriately feminine skills but was fighting a losing battle against the young girl. There was no stopping her slipping off to join her brothers’ practice with bows and swords and her mother did not overly protest, for she herself was the daughter of a shieldmaiden of Rohan and also understood the importance of self-defence, living as they did in unsettled border country. More often than not Leoba would be caught crawling in, scratched and dirty from wild fishing and tracking expeditions with the boys. Or curled up in the crooked branch of a particular oak, her nose firmly ensconced in a book. Her spinning was a shameful mess of lumps and broken thread and, though her embroidery skills were bearable, her mother swore that she’d never find herself a decent husband.

It was only music that brought out her softer and more feminine side when, in the flickering firelight of winter evenings, the family indulged in story-telling, songs and verse. The old lays of Rohan and Gondor were learned by heart and always they strove to learn new tunes and, when they had none, to invent their own. Leoba would play the fiddle alongside her brothers’ command of many a ribald lyric. It was a happy, stable time despite the ever-present threat from the East. Always when she cast her mind back through the veiled mists of time, Leoba would see those days of her childhood soaked in their unadulterated hues. The sky always an azure blue, benignly spread above the glinting ripples of the river, alternately turquoise, jade and depthless midnight in its foaming currents. The land unfenced by the gold of full-ripened corn fields, with their blood-red poppy jewels. Sheltered from the fiery sun by dusky groves of olive or ivied oak. And scented with the somnolent haze of honeysuckle and jasmine in the twilight of the courtyard. But one by one Leoba’s brothers left; Culanir to train as a knight in Minas Tirith, then Carandil and Calion followed their father into the dangerous occupation of protecting their homeland. Evil crept up the great river and out of the south and east until finally it was too risky to linger more. And so in 3012 Cynehild fled with Leoba and Talagir back towards Rohan and her kin near Edoras. It’s strange how life-forming can be the shortest of years or the briefest of acquaintances. Thus it was with Leoba and her grandmother Aenflaed. At least, that’s the way that Leoba always saw it, whether it was in fact the chord struck between them, or the call of the open rolling plains of Rohan or the joys of deeper richer music, or a combination of all three that impacted so strongly on her. One thing she knew for sure was that her soul would no longer be settled with the cosy contentment that her mother wished for her. From the moment Aenflaed pressed ‘Angthalion’ into her hands, her fate was sealed. It was an evening more memorable for sensation and emotion than for words; the faith in her grandmother’s eyes and the glitter of the blade in the burnished firelight was forever etched deep into Leoba’s consciousness. And the promise which would ever be borne buried deep in her heart just as it was scored in the Elvish runes of the blade. Where Aenflaed had failed, Leoba knew she had to succeed, to bring peace to an old woman; not to use the blade to deliver judgement for in so doing it would exact its price on the bearer. As a constant reminder she was presented with a silver ring, of twin strands interlinked, to bind her heart to her oath. But memory is a fragile thing and apt to be lost beneath many layered passions; the music was winning, just as it had always threatened to do and the promise was buried deeper still until it remained but a faint shadow on her soul. The tides of war were ever encroaching upon the Mark. It had been a long while since Cynehild had had any news of her husband and sons, for nothing filtered through from as far afield as Ithilien, nor even did they hear from Culanir in the White City. Cynehild was becoming more and more frail and longed for nothing more than to hear of her beloved again. But her only remaining son Talagir was off with his Rohirrim uncles and cousins and so Leoba resolved to go to Minas Tirith to find out what she could. Partly, if she was honest with her herself for selfish reasons for at eighteen she really didn’t look very far past the end of her own nose and desired nothing more than to succumb to her wanderlust. Thus Cynehild bade farewell to her youngest and last remaining child and Leoba took the twist in life’s path that would leave her more sundered from home than she had ever desired.

It was the late Autumn of 3020. Minas Tirith was all that she had hoped and more; bustling, noisy and alive with men, women, soldiers, servants, all single-mindedly preoccupied with war. Full of vibrancy and energy that she could almost forgive the streets their dirt and claustrophobia. Her brother Culanir gave her refuge and she was able to send word back to their mother that at least the two of them were safe, although no news was forthcoming of those beyond the Anduin. Whether it was the intensity of the surrounding conflict or the sudden freedom of being her own mistress she never stopped to analyse, although later Leoba often tried to apologise to herself for her headstrong lack of caution in falling head over heels for the first man to show her attention. Alcaron was confident, had seen much of the world and combined a devilish wit with the most skilled sword play she had ever witnessed. Blinded, Leoba never saw the opinionated egotism that he carefully hid under the cloak of charisma. ‘Lindë’ he called her; his singing bird and he guarded her jealously as though she were indeed a rare bird in a cage. Not that she minded; Alcaron was a big fish in his particular pond and he brought her to the forefront of all that was fun and spirited. Having proven himself on the Pelennor he ensured his fiancée was treated to prime seats at Elessar’s coronation and brought her musical talents to the attention of the new king.

Culanir had known nothing of the romance before it was too late to stop it and they had plighted their troth. As a sign of his enduring love, Alcaron gifted Leoba a stone, older than many of the Eldar left in Arda; an amethyst set in a brooch and he said traditionally given by the eldest son of his house to she whom he would make his bride. That was too much for his family who were outraged at the prospect of a liaison between their son and heir and the daughter of an impecunious ranger. They accused her of stealing the jewel and in fear she ran to Alcaron. But he had deserted her, leaving her to fend for herself against the unjust charge and its accompanying punishment; at the least, loss of her hands and the death of her soul if she could no longer play, at the worst, loss of her life. It was her brother who came to her aid; he dressed her as a knight of the White City and thus smuggled her without the walls. She carried nothing more than the fateful brooch, her grandmother’s sword and her precious fiddle. The first chills of the deepening year were swirling down from the White Mountains as Leoba headed north-west through Anórien towards Rohan. It was the speediest route away from the direct jurisdiction of Minas Tirith and, not least, her mother and her family still dwelt near to Edoras and she hoped that with them she might find shelter and temporary respite. The journey on foot was slow and laborious yet she never gave up hope as she followed the foothills of the White Mountains, keeping always to sheep tracks away from the main road.

But war had decimated the community, the hearth was icy and no solace was to be found. Her family were gone and no trace of her mother, grandmother, brother or uncles remained. She could only hope that Cynehild had gone south to Ithilien or that they had all resettled elsewhere in the Mark. It was a dark night in that hall when she was attacked and turned cold steel upon human flesh, for the first time in her short life ended the life of another. Her blade was stained with the blood of an unarmed man, here in the hall where she had promised not to judge any. Somehow things could never be the same again. It was though a little bit of her had been buried, as she buried the stranger and turned the hardened shell of her soul north. Leoba lived a hand to mouth existence as she trekked alongside the Misty Mountains as swiftly as she might without a mount and with rapidly deteriorating shoe leather. The stars were her guide and her only friend, for the way was mostly devoid of human company. She would not have had it any different. Occasion brought her to an inn’s fireside and the decadent pleasure of warm water and a bed for the night in return for her music; a small price though not one without pain. The words to the old songs seemed now without feeling or emotion; how could she tell convincingly of love, in which she could no longer believe. But she was reckoning without the invention of the hand of fate.

It came to pass that her course took her deep into Eriador and to an inn, the Lucky Fortune, filled with the strangest mixes of races and talent all gathered together for a festival in celebration of the bardic tradition. She was convinced to linger and to take part and there struck up a friendship with a young Laketowner, Dirk of Esgaroth. On the great east road trade flourished, for the new reign had already brought with it a greater ease of travel and an increase in prosperity. It was rare not to see cavalcades of merchants, messengers or even the odd adventurer traversing its way. Business was brisk and Leoba remained at the inn, grateful for the proprietors’ offer of work and the security of a roof over her head and not least for the burgeoning friendships which that house readily fostered. When after a time, Dirk invited her to take part in an archery competition in Dale she readily agreed and having begged leave from her job bade adieu to Eriador, for the road was ever singing to her and her feet itched to take to its ways. Once more the splendour of the Misty Mountains held her in thrall and the deep tranquillity of the Greenwood caressed her spirit; the bitter conflict between peaceful settlement and the desire to know this great wide world was rearing its head once again. The interlude was memorable, not least because Leoba triumphed at the butts to beat the bowmen at their own game and also for the last moments of unthreatened peace and merry-making and the delicate budding of new romance.

On their return through Greenwood, they halted at the halls of King Thranduil. There, Dirk was drawn into secret council with the Elven king, the sons of Elrond HalfElven and Faramir and Lady Eowyn, where he was advised of his true heritage as the heir of Angmar. When he in turn told Leoba, it was to her as if her whole world had started spinning around, whilst she stood stock-still in the eye of the storm, unsure which way to turn and indeed who to turn to. But in that same moment she knew, hit with a force greater than reason, that beyond all doubt she cared for this man; whilst her head told her to run and leave, her heart refused to let her move. Whatever lay in store, she knew that she could not and would not leave him whilst there was still breath in her body. It marked the end of her fugitive existence, for she was brought face to face with her liege and there given no real choice which path she should thenceforth tread. Faramir offered her the chance to choose what she would of her own free will; to give her loyalty to Dirk and do all she could to aid him. The alternative was to return to Gondor and face judgement for the crimes of which she’d been accused. And thus she pledged her allegiance.

But the evil proved too strong and Dirk was lost, pursuing paths which he would never detail except in the torture of his nightmares. Lost in her hope and deserted by the man she loved, Leoba resolved to return to the inn to try and start afresh, albeit as a hollow shell of her former self. But she could not rest and instead returned to Minas Tirith, hopeful of the mercy of the Lord of Ithilien and hopeful that in some small way she might yet keep faith and give some modicum of aid. However, it was not Faramir or Alcaron she found in Minas Tirith but Bardhwyn, archer of Dale and closest to a sister that Dirk had. The Dalewoman took Leoba in and sheltered her and showed kindness and compassion that Leoba would ever be indebted for. There were no rumblings of her past come back to haunt her and no sightings of the people and the circles she had once moved in. Content to melt into the background, Leoba did not pry. Time became immaterial and the days blended into one another with bland and seamless distaste for life. Until Dirk returned to claim her; clad in shadow and bearing his father’s ring of power as Lord of Carn Dûm, he arrived at the unyielding gates of the White City. Force was massed to cast him down and yet it was the accidental action of Juwel, a Hobbit of the Shire, which saved the day and cut the ring from Dirk’s hand. He took time to recover from his bodily wounds, during which time Leoba never left his side, and then he faced his judgement before the sages of the realm. He was given his freedom and the chance to redeem himself. And he swore to Leoba that he would never again forsake their love. They rode north and Leoba returned to her position at the Lucky Fortune; the situation was ideal for garnering knowledge and news and the proprietors were amenable. Only, long-term respite would never be her gift, not whilst there were ties of family and friendship to bind her to uncertainty.

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A winter’s night in Rohan

That first winter alone in the wild was particularly hard for Leoba. On leaving the city, she had initially headed north-west through Anórien towards Rohan. It was the speediest route away from the direct jurisdiction of Minas Tirith and, not least, Leoba’s mothers’ family still dwelt near to Edoras and she hoped that with them she might find shelter and temporary respite. The journey on foot was slow and laborious yet she never gave up hope as she followed the foothills of the White Mountains, keeping always to sheep tracks away from the main road.

When, beset by weariness and with encroaching evening upon her, Leoba arrived at the door to her cousins’ hall she found not what she sought. The door swung open, broken upon its hinges and the icy wind whipped through the building, stirring the cold ashes in the hearth and scattering them amidst the floor rushes. There was no-one home and, by the looks of things, it had been so for some time. Nevertheless, Leoba determined that here she would pass the night, at least out of the worst of the biting wind.

She had little with which to satisfy her hunger bar a few late ripened berries. It was on this unsatisfactory supper that Leoba laid herself down to sleep, wrapped tight in her woollen travelling cloak and dreaming of a thick fleece to snuggle under. It was in the early hours preceding dawn that the young woman awoke with a start. At first her sleepy brain told her that it was merely the night’s chill which disturbed her slumber but then she came to her senses; a stick snapped outside the doorway. Quick as lightening and acting purely on years of training and continual instruction from her father, Leoba reached for her sword Angthalion. As she drew the weapon the cold steel gleamed momentarily in the moonlight, an unearthly sheen that no mortal blade should bear. A shadow loomed dark across the entrance and Leoba cast her cloak to the floor then slipped Angthalion underneath. There was no need to appear as an unnecessary aggressor but neither did she desire to find her position indefensible.

“Who goes there?” she called out into the gloom, her voice barely keeping from shaking. A tall man stepped within and began to pace towards Leoba with a calm regularity of step. “Tell me. What do you want?”, she called out again not yet daring to move from the spot where she stood with her back to the wall. Her palms felt cold and clammy.

“Food”. That one word, spoken in the Westron tongue, was all she received in response. He stepped into the shaft of moonlight which split the distance between them. It revealed his swarthy visage, heavily scarred and surmounted by dark heavy brows. His face would have probably been considered dull were it not for the keenness of the hunter in his eyes; they glowed with a fierce flame which struck fear into the spirit of Leoba.

“I have nothing”. Defiantly, Leoba drew herself up to her full height, her chin pushed forward in a gesture of refusal. It was seemingly not enough. The man crossed the shaft of light towards her and lunged at her throat, forcing her back against the wall. His hot breath burnt her face. Her stomach revolted at the stench emanating from his body.

The man leered, filling her vision. “What, nothing at all? I shouldn’t be so sure of that my lovely”. The fingers of one hand still gripped at her neck, the other hand plucked at the lacings of her gown. She pushed away at his shoulders, struggling to free herself from his suffocating grip, hearing the tear of linen as her dress was ripped. He was too strong for her, despite his underfed physique.

But something in Leoba’s mind snapped. She could hear her mother’s voice, clear as crystal, ‘You can best any man. Never forget that you have the blood of Rohan in your veins’. Her knee came up, in direct response to that memory. Hit hard in the crotch, he let go of her and doubled up with a cry. Leoba sank to the ground, her hand feeling frantically for her cloak and the hidden steel which she knew was to hand. When he drew breath once more and turned on her with renewed venom she was ready. Her hand shaky but her thoughts firm, she grasped the hilt and dragged the sword forth. She thrust up, barely looking as the attacker sank onto the point. She rolled out of the way and he collapsed with barely a sigh.

‘I’ve killed someone’, the words were repeated over and over inside her uncomprehending brain. Time was frozen and she knew not how long had passed, the man lying in a pool of darkening blood beside her. At long last she stirred and began to assess the situation rationally, although she felt as thought she were watching someone else as she searched the body. There was little of value to be recovered, not even a weapon. She half pulled him, half carried him out of the hall towards the small vegetable garden. There she dug a shallow grave in which she laid the man, covering him with the blood-stained rushes and earth. Inside she changed from the torn dress, bundling it up in the bottom of her pack and made a last check around the building. To all outward appearances, the hall was just as she’d found it.

With the first light of dawn, Leoba departed. Her eyes were glazed and her heart was numb. She stumbled back out onto the path, turning now north towards the Entwash and the Misty Mountains, desperate to put as much distance as possible between her and the events both past and recent which haunted her every step. With midday she halted in woodland and at last allowed her mind to have its tortuous way with her and then the tears came. Leoba wept. For the murder of an unarmed man. For the lover who had betrayed her. For the family she never thought to see again. For her homeland of Ithilien. And most of all for herself and her life which was destroyed. When she took to her feet again many hours later she left behind the girl she had once been. A piece of her soul was sealed and buried. Her course was set. She headed for the river, turning away from the sun.

Last edited by Leoba on Thu Jan 10, 2013 2:46 pm, edited 3 times in total.

CulanirAge: 30Appearance: 5’10’’, medium build.Hair: Red-gold, close cropped and bearded.Eyes:Green.Status: Single but hopelessly and eternally in love with Turelië Lurea.Occupation: Knight of Minas Tirith.Weapons: He prefers to fight on foot with his sword, Narmacil, but can also use a mace, axe or bow.Mount: A dark bay gelding called Countan.Personality: A strong warrior, reliable on the field of battle. His Achilles-heel is his romanticism. Slightly pessimistic in outlook - as a result of circumstance rather than nature. BackgroundBeginnings: Born the eldest of five children (three younger brothers and a sister, Leoba), Culanir was raised in Ithilien, where his father Caranthir was stationed in Osgiliath. A guard's wages did not go far amongst such a substantial family but what they lacked financially they more than made up for in hard work and determination. From the age he could first pick up a wooden sword, the young Culanir was focused only on learning to be the best. It was the one thing at which he excelled; whilst his younger brothers and especially his sister took to music and studies, to the detriment of their sword skills, he was rather inclined to neglect his books and was happier to sit and listen to songs of chivalrous knights than to sing of them himself. Lurea: sixteenth year was marked by his acceptance as squire to Hardedhil, a knight of the White City, and a consequent departure from all the he held dear in his homeland and a new life within the city walls. It marked a change in the course of his life forever and saw his happiness eclipsed…. it was the dead of winter when he arrived and the White City was lit in the gloaming by forked lightning bolts and drenched in heavy rain. And an Elf maiden stood in the midst of it: her eyes blazing as though they were made of the very storm themselves; her dark hair plastered against her soft and creamy skin; her strong spirit shining forth with a brightness to rival the silmarils themselves. He left his heart unguarded and thus unwittingly made what was perhaps the biggest mistake of his life; he fell for Lurea.

But in the time that followed, he caught but glimpses of her whilst he trained hard under Hardedhil in pursuit of the knighthood he craved. Her teasing glances all he had on which to survive. Every arrow shot at the butts, every sword thrust against the mannequins, every damp cold night on duty, every painful hour spent studying lore… all were blessed with her image in mind. But she was too far above him and he knew she would never condescend to love him as an equal. Adventures in Harad: His investiture had barely come and gone before the armies were commanded to march towards Harad to suppress a Southron uprising. Never had orders been more welcome, for it took him away from she who brought both light and pain into his life and had left him embittered. Necessarily a close bond had been formed with his tutor Hardedhil and even after Culanir had attained his goal the two worked closely together and fought side by side. But during the campaign, his friend and tutor was captured by the enemy. He was gone for months. The Gondorian army laid siege to one of the vast cities of Near Harad – a walled citadel like unto Minas Tirith in its defences, rising sheer out of the desert sands and considered by its occupiers to be impregnable. The army of the north was near breaking point when the city gates finally fell to them and victorious they surged in. It was there that Culanir was reunited with Hardedhil. His friend had not lived to recount his tale, but the marks upon his body revealed more than a thousand words of the lays of old. Culanir found him in the uppermost levels of the palace, remarkable thanks to his long blonde hair which marked him out among the Haradrim dead, and the missing finger resultant from sword-training gone awry. Hardedhil was broken, skeletal, not just starved but tortured, his body marked with deep scars and open sores, his eyes vacant sockets.

Culanir swore to take vengeance. Not from any greater reasoning then to ease his own pain and to take blood-payment in return for the life of his friend. Thus he fought long and hard against the Haradrim and attained many high honours. Finally, open battle drew them forth and Harad threw every last vestige of their dwindling strength against the occupying army. Gondor was victorious but not without great loss to their own kin. Culanir acquitted himself bravely, leading the charge on the right flank was resulted in the capture of the enemies strongest position on the hillside. But many fine men fell that day. The prisoners were lined up, dragged in chains to be either ransomed or taken back to Gondor for imprisonment. One of them, Rathnar – conspicuous and different to his fellows - held Culanir in his steely eye, taunting about the men of Gondor he had taken and killed. He saw Culanir’s discomfiture and pressed home, talking about the city that had been taken and the death of the Gondorian prisoners before the final assault and how they had squealed like infants as the Haradrim stole the light from their eyes. Rathnar took his punishment from Culanir; the slash of Narmacil gracing his right face and the blood staining the already filthy desert sand of the battle plain.But it was not enough for Culanir, would never be enough. For the seeds of hatred had wormed their way deep and it would never be enough to simply find and kill Hardedhil’s murderers. All Haradrim were to blame in his eyes – scum that would never be trusted, all deserved to pay the penalty for the mistakes of their kin. The south subdued, Minas Tirith called them home and duty called. Lurea was still there, ever tormenting, and to escape Culanir threw himself into his service with an astonishing passion and all the while his empathy for his fellow human beings was sidelined. Becoming more habitually a loner, his reputation at his chosen profession grew and he was called upon more and more.

RholarowynHe had never expected to be called upon by the young Rohirrim girl. Culanir knew of Rholarowyn of course, cousin to the famed Boromir of the Stewards' House, a proud girl who had a look of steely determination in her eye. And she knew of him, knew of his courage and integrity and the will to achieve which marked him out amongst the other men. Angry and with a touch of desperation in her fourteen year old voice she begged him to teach her to be a warrior. He was resistant, wary of womankind and wary of damaging his own position by secretly training the ward of the Stewards when it was certain that she was not here to be trained for war. But she convinced him that her vow and her intentions were serious and he gave in, as much to keep an eye on her as anything else but also because in this young girl he saw some of the passion to achieve his goals that had driven him for so long. In secret, in the long dark evenings they trained; he worked her hard, not that she needed motivation beyond that of her own heart. And they talked and mutually understood some of the demons which drove each other. But when their secret was finally discovered, a new secret quickly replaced the old. Culanir would never be known as Rho’s first mentor, and the deep friendship that had formed between the two, was completely severed and that severance sealed on oath to protect his protégé's reputation. It was only once she had left to be taught by another that he realised what difference she had made to him, reawakening the realisation that human contact was not something that needed to be shunned.

LeobaThus he was overjoyed when his youngest sibling, Leoba, was found a place at court, where her skills with music came to the ears of the King and Queen. And he even began to grow accustomed once again to light and laughter. So it was that once again a desperate young woman ended up on his doorstep at dead of night, begging for his aid, and this time he could not refuse. Leoba, falsely accused and betrayed by the man she had thought she loved, begged him to hide her. But Culanir knew of the nobleman and his family whose enmity she had unjustly entailed and that they would stop at nothing to prevent their son from being obliged to marry her. She only escaped with her life because Culanir dressed her as a knight of the City and thus smuggled her without the walls. In this parting at least he had the chance to wish god-speed and to tell her he cared.

Though he worried about both his young charges and feared for their future out in the cold hard world, his hands were tied until their paths should cross again. And all the while he never stopped loving the aloof Elven princess who had haunted his dreams since his sixteenth year, little knowing where that should lead himAdventures in Dol AmrothMisfortune finally found its mark when Culanir was sent to Dol Amroth to investigate a series of murders, on command of the King. There by chance his path crossed with Lurea's again and their fates became once more interwoven… before there was a chance to kindle hope she was viciously attacked and left fighting for life and desperately scarred. Culanir barely left her side, convinced now that he could not walk away from the love of his life and she came with him and the rest of their ill-fated band on a search to find the source of the evil.

Their future was not to be. Lurea was seduced by villainy and corrupted into vile servitude, working only for the Master who sought to bind them all. In her controlled state, Lurea's spells caught the poor company tight in a web of deceit and betrayal, as she played one off against the other and caused untold pain to Culanir by trying to seduce Erinhue. She brought them to a temple deep in the Hills of Tarnost to prepare the two men for sacrificial rites. But the Master's hold slipped but a little and they were delayed by Culanir and Lurea's own passions, no longer restricted behind closed icy walls, and for that brief time they were bonded as one, together as they were about to be sundered. Brought back strictly under the Master's control and ably assisted by the violet-eyed Southerner Rathnar, returned from the scalding death of desert sands and who owed Culanir no allegiance, Lurea oversaw the deliverance of Culanir to the Master's fortress where he sought to probe the Knight's mind through bodily torment. But the final betrayal came with the spell-bound Lurea's part in that torture. It was too much for either to bear and both went their separate ways. Though his broken body mended, his broken spirit would never entirely heal. Culanir returned to Minas Tirith alone. The city had lost none of its vibrancy and, for a while, provided a welcome distraction. The WeddingSome time later, rumours that chilled even Culanir's granite heart reached the gates of the White City; Lurea was to be married. The Gondorian knight did the only thing he could, he asked for several months' furlough and travelled North to Eriador, as an uninvited wedding guest. He had hoped to slink in and out unseen, taking away only a close to their ill-fated romance. But fortune had cast Culanir an evil hand and thrown together in that place others whom he had never thought to see again. To add insult to the anguish of seeing his beloved wed a Halfling, his old enemy Erinhue was the best man. And both Rholarowyn and Leoba were in attendance. The two ladies did their utmost to keep the knight away from the bride, although the unsettled effect of his presence sent ripples on unease through the guests. But Culanir, for all his faults, was a man of honour and the fears that he would attempt to upset proceedings were thoroughly misplaced. Though it broke his already tattered heart to watch it, he saw out the ceremony which bound Lurea to another, and though it didn’t bring him the closure he had perhaps hoped for, it was a necessary step in his attempt to bring about a new chapter of his life.<BR><BR>However, Culanir's path was never so simple. Lurea was kidnapped before her new husband, Hobbituk. had had the opportunity to know her as his wife. Hearing that Culanir was present and having been ill-advised and being suspicious of his motives, Hobbituk asked to speak to the Gondorian, whereupon he accused Culanir of effecting the kidnap! Naturally Culanir was furious and reacted angrily to the unfounded barrage of abuse that the half-pint of curly fluff was hurling his way, unthinkingly drawing Hobbi's attention to that night of passion in the temple. It is important to note at this juncture that Hobbituk began the fight, attempting in his misplaced rage to strangle Culanir. Unfortunately, Erinhue and his wife utterly misconstrued the situation and whilst Hobbituk took to the road in search of the missing Lurea, Erinhue and Culanir took fists to each other's bodies, in a fight so uncommon and so spectacular that it went down in legend.

DindraugHis tail between his legs, Culanir cut his losses after that and left the tatters of his old life as far behind him as he could. He turned for home; he cut a sorry figure trudging down the Greenway with his heavy heart begrudging him every step away. He halted at inns and, for the first time in his life, he drank for the sake of getting drunk. It was thus, when his wits were less sharp than he was used to, that he ran into Dindraug, an ancient Elf who should have known better. This casual acquaintance decided to ply the unwary knight was more drink and probed until the whole sorry tale of lost love and grief came spilling forth. For some reason unbeknown to Culanir, Din thought that he would make a good travelling companion and so attached himself to the unfortunate knight all the way home, as well as at several inconvenient future moments. A change of fortune?As luck would have it, Culanir bought a trinket at the midsummer market, off a Pelagirian chapman named Nindalf. It was a trifle to the idle observer, but for the knight it was hope for his future. Still beset with anguished dreams about a dark haired elf, he purchased a reliquary containing three precious slivers of Angrist; the knife used by Beren to cut the silmaril from Morgoth's crown. It was no matter to him that the blade had been shattered and embedded in the Dark Lord's throne before its recovery, what was important was that it was purported to bring luck in love to its bearer and the promise of a romance as abiding as that which has existed between Beren and Lúthien. Armed with this precious keepsake, the knight ventured out to try his chances, his steps still frustratingly dogged by the ever more irritating Dindraug. However even the Avari couldn’t get in the way of the spell cast by the possession of the relic and, though it meant little to either of them, Culanir was entranced and seduced by a lady of the South.

Last edited by Culanir on Tue Jan 08, 2013 3:11 pm, edited 2 times in total.

Name Maelgwn
Race Half Númenórean, Half Elven
Gender Male
Age 62
Physical AppearanceHeight: 6’2”
Hair: shoulder length, dark brown and fine.
Eyes: golden-brown and soft and gentle even after a decade on the roads, they left him an air of youthful joie de vivre that was perhaps surprising in one who made a business out of danger.
Clothing: In the wild; greys and greens and soft earthy browns. In polite company he wears a lightweight dove-grey wool, trimmed about the collar with a simply embroidered panel of faintly lighter fabric. He didn’t present himself overly richly and even thus retained the ability to blend effortlessly into the background and remain an observer rather than observed.
Personality Gentle and courteous and maybe a little flirtatious, he has assumed many of the graceful mannerisms of his mothers’ people. He takes honour and service extremely seriously. Yet underneath he is driven by the pride and ambition of his Númenórean blood.
Status Single
Occupation Ranger and sometime emissary
Weapons Bow and long knife

Background

2969 - Maelgwn born in Lindon to Halatirno of the Dúnedain descended from the grandson of Amlaith of Fornost, born 726, died 946, reigned 861-946) and Lairelossë, a Silvan Elf of Mirkwood.

2980 - Halatirno died, feared poisoned. The grief-stricken Lairelossë returned with her eleven year old son to the deep forests of her birth. Maelgwn grows up at the court of king Thranduil.

2994 - With his maturity, Maelgwn began to act as a page and herald for the Elves, travelling much on the great East-West Road between Dale and Mithlond. After many years he made contact again with his father's people. He first learned of the mysterious disappearance of his ancient ancestor, M****, brother to Mallor of Arthedain.

3011 - Upon the urging of his paternal uncle he then took to the wild, working with other rangers to keep the peace.

3017 - Pausing in Rivendell to pass on a message from the Elves of the far West, Maelgwn met his fellow ranger Alandriel with whom he struck up a friendship.

3019 - War of the Ring. Maelgwn was of the Grey Company and passed through the Paths of the Dead before fighting at Pelennor.

3020 - Autumn, the Wedding at the Lucky Fortune. He ran into Alandriel again.

4A 10 - Maelgwn, having got wind of an expedition to the far north, journeyed to join Alandriel in Mithlond. Perhaps in hope of finding out something of his own distant ancestry along the way.

Last edited by Maelgwn on Fri Jul 23, 2004 3:00 am, edited 3 times in total.

<b>Name</b>: King Belethrant <BR>(sometimes known when travelling incognito by the pseudonym Glorannûn)<BR><b>Race</b>: Telerin Elf<BR><b>Gender</b>: Male<BR><b>Age</b>: Born in the mid-first age, after the kinslaying and the departure of the Noldor to Middle Earth. <BR><b>Height</b>: 6’2”<BR><b>Status</b>: Married to Queen Elerrína and father to Calimë<BR><b>Occupation</b>: King of Imlammoth, the last remaining stronghold of elves in Middle-Earth<BR><b>Personality</b>: Gentle, and very patient. Confident, charming and sure of his own nobility. Not one for killing, unless needs be but when occasion demands was capable of terrifyingly ruthless cold-bloodedness. He had a tendency to let money run through his fingers, which could lead him into somewhat tricky situations at times.<BR><b>Skills</b>: He spoke fluent Quenya, Sindarin and the Common Tongue and had an interest in other languages, particularly Rohirric. A talented warrior; a poet of dubious quality (although he fancied himself to be good); years of practice had honed his talent at the lute; skilled in herb-lore and the delicate art of poisons.<BR><b>Weapons</b>: His sword, Celebanar, gifted to him by Gil-Galad. Fought also with bow, spear and words.<BR><b>Appearance</b>: His hair was blonde, his eyes a rich peaty brown.<BR><u>Clothing</u>: Close to his skin was a silk shirt of delicate weave, over which he wore a fine grey woollen tunic. His bespoke boots encased the calves tightly and above their tops rose soft suede breeches, their creamy colour somewhat stained from hard riding. He had expensive-looking scarlet riding gloves and a buff-coloured leather purse. It was an appearance that suggested quality rather than ostentation. <BR><u>What has he got in his pocketses</u>…: a small amount of money; a highly polished pewter flask, decorated with a leaf pattern and engraved about its flat round body with a line in tengwar which could be transcribed as ‘wine is bottled poetry’, although in this instance the receptacle contained miruvor instead; several wafers of lembas, still fresh inside their leaf wrappings; a few vials and miniature pots containing mysterious pastes, potions and powders; a small embroidered linen bag containing rather ornate ivory dice and gaming pieces, a whet stone; a cheap wooden spoon; a small eating knife with a well-worn and unadorned bone handle, sharp but not unusual in any way it was the sort of tool one could find for sale in any decent market. Midnight- blue jewel, the Elenen around his neck, tucked beneath his garments; a wide mithril band set with an enamelled disk and blood-red rubies, which was the coronation ring of Imlammoth; a pair of blue velvet pouches, one containing a silver locket on a fine chain, inside which lay a narrow braid of hair, blonde and ebony intertwined, combined locks of Belethrant and his fair and dearly beloved wife Elerrína, set in their case long ago ere she’d departed these shores for Valinor; inside the other, rare blue-diamonds, the stars of Alqualonde and gift beyond price from his mother who was of the Vanyar.<BR><b>Mount</b>: Horses: Eärglin and Luinsul<BR><BR><b>Background</b>:<BR>1st Age: Belethrant was born in Alqualondë, son to a union between one of the Teleri and one of the Vanyar. Not only did Belethrant’s mother gift him her blonde hair but also her deep love of poetry and peace. And from his father came his conflicting love for both the forests of Middle Earth and for the sea. He captained one of the ships that carried the Noldor and the Vanyar to Middle Earth in the War of Wrath. And there he fell in love with Middle Earth, fought alongside the host and after the destruction of Beleriand settled in Gil-Galad’s kingdom of North Lindon. <BR><BR>2nd Age: There in Lindon he met with Elerrína, of the Noldor; they plighted their troth and were wedded and there lived in seeming bliss for many years. But hers was a restless heart and she ever longed to return home to Valinor. And whilst they dwelt by the sea, though not content, she was at least stilled in her desires. Belethrant fought in the battle of the Last Alliance and stood, blood-drenched, at the side of Gil-Galad, defending his liege to the last. <BR><BR>3rd Age: <BR>His daughter, Calimë, became a Nightguard and was effectively sundered from her family from then on. Belethrant loved her dearly and never got over the pain of her loss, which was compounded when they heard that she’d been killed. When the news of her murder reached her parents, Elerrína found her grief too great to bear and departed the Havens for Aman. Calimë’s gil and the stars of Alqualonde came back to Belethrant, thus confirming her death in his eyes, and he treasured them always, vowing to avenge her. He was powerless to help the Nightguards in their hour of need. <BR><BR>4th Age:<BR>He settled in the northernmost section of Middle Earth, about a mile south of the Lamp of the Valar, and about 50 miles from Angband. The kingdom he created, Imlammoth, became the house of those elves who were homeless as Lorien was abandoned.<BR><BR><BR><BR><BR>*******************************************************************<BR> <BR><u>What has he got in his pockets?</u><BR><BR>Despite the ill wind gusting through the gaps in the poorly insulated hut, Belethrant sat very still as the guards endeavoured to interrogate him; the words were washing about his ears, making little indent upon his self, although he heard every one. But behind the calm demeanour of deceptive innocence in his wide-set eyes, the Elf was regarding his captors warily, looking for the chink in their coarse armour. <BR><BR>“Where were you going?” the smaller squat man asked. It was all Belethrant could do to repress an insolent smirk as the guard leaned across the scrubbed table-top towards him, his belly sprawling slovenly over his too-tight belt and quite undoing the authoritative air he had injected into his voice. <BR><BR>“I’ve told you already”, Belethrant replied quietly, “I on my way to Dol Amroth to visit my sister”.<BR><BR>“Oh come on, who’re you trying to kid? It’s rare enough to have one Elf lurking the streets. There’s hardly a profusion of pointy-ears in the city these days.” They knew that their argument held little water, just as they were quite sure that their prisoner was not here for a holiday and to take the sea air.<BR><BR>“Still, there are enough of us left for you to be outside your remit to detain me without charge”, the Elf asserted confidently, “and unless the laws have greatly changed since I last left the shades of the woods, it is my belief that kin may wait upon each other without prior permission”.<BR><BR>“Of the woods indeed!” sneered the taller of the two men, the commanding officer by his manner and the gilt badge he sported proudly on his chest. “Since when have blonde Elves come scurrying out of the Greenwood. We weren’t born yesterday”. They knew that there was something strange in the proud bearing and striking colouring of this particular one of the Eldar, but they needed proof that he was the king they had been tasked to find, else their reward would be the lash rather than the mounds of gold each had seen piled up in their mind’s eye. <BR><BR>“Show us your purse and pouches. Turn out your pockets!” the captain suddenly barked, spraying Belethrant’s sun-scorched face with a shower of spittle. <BR><BR>The Elf lord flinched and drew back. His thoughts went scurrying through the tunnels of his mind, fearing what these foul men might force him to reveal. So much of his true self he had hidden away but some things, some things he could not bear to part with and these he knew could tie him irrevocably to his identity. <BR><BR>He hesitated and his reward was the ice-cold steel of a dagger, pressed close to his throat. “Come on, cough up, we haven’t got all day” came the snarl.<BR><BR>With due reticence Belethrant untucked the fine scarlet riding gloves from his belt and reached first for his small buff-coloured leather purse. He tipped out the contents into his soft palm; there was nothing to be afraid of here, just a selection of silver and bronze coins of varying sizes and values. It was not so great a financial weight as to draw suspicion but that was not by his own choice, for money had a habit of running like water through his fingers. <BR><BR>Leaving the coins on the table, he turned his nimble fingers to the thongs fastening the thick pouch which he wore firmly threaded at his waist. This had been borrowed from one of his sergeants-at-arms several days ago in the mountains when he’d divested himself of his ungainly royal entourage and slipped into the less conspicuous guise of the noble yet insignificant traveller and taken his favoured pseudonym of ‘Glorannûn’. One by one Belethrant pulled out the odds and ends he harboured and set them out in front of his inquisitors. There was a highly polished pewter flask, decorated with a leaf pattern and engraved about its flat round body with a line in tengwar which could be transcribed as ‘wine is bottled poetry’, although in this instance the receptacle contained miruvor instead. It was swiftly followed by several wafers of lembas, still fresh inside their leaf wrappings. There was a small embroidered linen bag containing rather ornate ivory dice and gaming pieces, a whet stone and a cheap wooden spoon. <BR><BR>Also hanging from his belt was a small eating knife with a well-worn and unadorned bone handle, sharp but not unusual in any way it was the sort of tool one could find for sale in any decent market. Belethrant had come by it many years ago in North Lindon during the early years of the second age of the world. And though it had had new handles and the blade had been sharpened and replaced once or twice, he carried it still whether in palace or cott. <BR><BR>The eyes of the soldiers bored into him, seeking out whatever it was he was hiding; they knew that the items he’d produced told them nothing. Under their gaze Belethrant felt cold sweat begin to seep through the silk shirt he wore under the fine grey woollen tunic, both layers covering the midnight blue jewel, the Elenen, on the sturdy chain round his neck. So long as they kept their hands to themselves and they didn’t find the hidden pocket on the inside of his clothes, then he knew he could still talk his way out of things stop them from taking him into the city gaol. But sewn tight into that secret pocket was the one badge he had not had the heart to leave behind, for it was his seal of office and his mark. A wide mithril band set with an enamelled disk and blood-red rubies, it was the coronation ring of Imlammoth, which he had taken up hand in hand with his oath to protect the last remnants of his people in Middle Earth. <BR><BR>He unbuttoned the pocket on the outside of his tunic; this one at least he couldn’t avoid revealing. All the same, it was with great reluctance that he withdrew the pair of blue velvet pouches that resided there, for both were of great sentimental value to him and not for prying eyes. First he pulled out a silver locket on a fine chain. The soldiers nodded to him to open it up. Inside lay a narrow braid of hair, blonde and ebony intertwined, combined locks of Belethrant and his fair and dearly beloved wife Elerrína, set in their case long ago ere she’d departed these shores for Valinor. And then he picked up the second pouch, and tipped out three gems which glittered brazenly. Rare blue-diamonds; the stars of Alqualonde and gift beyond price from his mother who was of the Vanyar.<BR><BR><BR><BR>*******************************************************************<BR><BR><BR><b>Name</b>: Cirinor <BR><b>Race</b>: Man<BR><b>Gender</b>: Male<BR><b>Age</b>: about 15 <BR><b>Height</b>: 5’5” and hoping desperately he’ll grow some more<BR><b>Status</b>: Single<BR><b>Occupation</b>: Servant to Belethrant<BR><b>Personality</b>: Devoted to Belethrant; inquisitive; budding sociability but he just lacked the skills to master company as of yet; particularly shy around women for his had been a short life in relative seclusion amongst men-folk, he might as well have been brought up a monk for all the difference it would have made.<BR><b>Skills</b>: <BR><b>Weapons</b>: The longbow was his weapon of choice, a side-effect of a childhood amongst the Elves, but he also had and was learning to master a sword.<BR><b>Appearance</b>:<BR>A freckled face with a tendency to blush, an unfortunate affliction which he showed no signs of growing out of. Sandy hair and blue-grey eyes. Short and rather stocky, although fit and athletic.<BR>

<i>I feel rather sorry for Marlin; he was created for a specific RP which died out but I haven't the heart to lay him to rest. He's a crotchety old sod and I'm rather fond of him.</i><BR> <BR><BR><BR><b>Name</b>: Marlin_Ironclaw<BR><b>Race</b>: Dwarf<BR><b>Gender</b>: Male<BR><b>Age</b>: 182<BR><b>Height</b>: small but perfectly formed (about 4’5”)<BR><b>Hair</b>: long and wiry, it was once pure black, now tinged with flecks of white<BR><b>Eyes</b>: reminiscent of highly polished jet; deep and unfathomable<BR><b>Status</b>: eternally single; do you have any idea how difficult it is to find a Dwarvish woman?<BR><b>Occupation</b>: highly-skilled metal-worker and warrior<BR><b>Weapons</b>: axe and a short broad-sword, made by Telchar in the First Age and handed down his family from father to son.<BR><b>Personality</b>: Typical Dwarvish attributes: stubborn, indomitable, brave in battle. Too old to get over his deep and abiding mistrust of Elves.<BR><b>Background</b>: The only son of Morin, of Dáin Ironfoot’s people of the Iron Hills, Marlin was born in the year that Thráin II was imprisoned in Dol Guldur and the last of the seven Dwarven rings was lost (2845 of the 3rd Age). Now late middle-aged (equivalent to his mid 50s in modern human terms). His line could be traced back to the Dwarves of Nogrod in the Blue Mountains; his ancestor was one of the few Dwarves of that kingdom not slaughtered by the Elves. <BR><BR>He trained hard with axe and sword as was customary for his race but Marlin’s heart was always given to the love of metalwork. When he was 96 years of age, Marlin was one of the 500 of his kindred to accompany Dáin to Erebor to assist Thorin Oakenshield in the Battle of the Five Armies. He stood solidly by his lord in the press of battle, against the onslaught of the Orcs and wolves. The sturdy Dwarf ,whilst fighting off two Orc soldiers, was additionally attacked by a wolf, resulting in the loss of his left hand. However, the loss of a hand did not put an end to his usefulness in battle for he fought once more with Dáin, during the War of the Ring, in defence of Dale.<BR><BR>Dwarven smiths had replaced the missing hand with a claw of iron, thus enabling Marlin to continue his metalwork to some degree, using the claw as a vice. He increased in skill, producing not just mail of a quality not seen in many an age, but also objects of great beauty including a pair of fantastically carved ruby-set goblets and sword-hilts to suit the most beautiful of Elvish blades. It was this talent which caused Gimli to choose him as one the Dwarves brought south from Erebor to colonise Aglarond. <BR>

<i>Some of the poems I hate least</i><BR><BR><BR><BR>A bridge across the ages is what I aim to weave,<BR>By my lute’s sonorous voice the past I can retrieve.<BR>Can you hear the ancient battle cries echo down the years?<BR>Do you feel for those who fell, can you taste the salt of tears?<BR><BR>Eldar ships set sail again on storm-grey pipe-smoke seas,<BR>Fëanor’s fate falls from my lips as his tale is reprised,<BR>Glorfindel’s bright hair illuminates the gloomy bar,<BR>Huan the Hound of Valinor he fights another hour.<BR><BR>I ask nothing for my favours except for the odd beer,<BR>Just to lubricate the vocal chords and my memory clear.<BR>Keen to hear the latest news the crowd doth gather round,<BR>Leaning ever closer in to learn what word abounds.<BR><BR>Mellifluous trumpets resound in honour of the day<BR>Nine-fingered hobbit Frodo threw the One Ring away.<BR>O’er the reunited kingdom celebrations spread,<BR>Praising King Elessar and his fair bride newly wed.<BR><BR>Quoting dusty verses from amidst the ancient lays,<BR>Recording recent stories that I’ve heard along the way.<BR>Seated here I’ll deftly spin some vivid yarns for you,<BR>Twisted tapestries of tales in many varied hues.<BR><BR>Under all the vast expanse of Arda’s vaulted sky,<BR>Vagabonds are seldom more warmly welcomed than I,<BR>Wandering from inn to inn a-sampling of their wares<BR>eXpecting nothing more than to gift freedom from cares….<BR><BR>Yield to the music of the harp, rebec and drum, <BR>Zither, pipe or hurdy-gurdy, let the rhythm run.<BR><BR><i>March 3rd 2003 </i><BR><BR><BR>*******************************************************************<BR><BR><BR>I peeled away the heavy curtains that so well concealed my lair<BR>And I peered beyond their comfort to the big wide world out there<BR>I saw you outside dancing upon the sparkling snow<BR>Then you beckoned me to follow you wherever you should go.<BR><BR>So long had I resisted from behind the frosted glass<BR>That the naked chill of the unknown near felled me with its blast<BR>Like a learner on his ice-skates or a babe trying to walk<BR>I kept hold of the window ledge and from letting go I balked.<BR><BR>Something seemingly so simple had me trembling like a wreck<BR>As I shuffled most pathetically afraid to risk my neck<BR>Even when you took me gently and lead me by the hand<BR>I was terrified to let go lest I ended up unmanned.<BR><BR>I could have blundered thus indefinitely blind to what I’d missed<BR>For contented in my blindness I’d not thought more could exist<BR>Until that is you let me go went spinning wild and free<BR>And I saw I had to follow else you’d not come back to me.<BR><BR>I don’t recall any decision-making scored across my mind<BR>I only knew I had to trust myself else I’d fall behind<BR>So I spread my virgin sails and chanced the ice would hold<BR>And that faith and courage alone would help shield me from the cold.<BR><BR>There was no wish to look below at the ground passing neath my feet<BR>There was no need to worry about landing on my seat<BR>I just knew that I was dancing as I’d seen you do before<BR>And as the breeze surged up beneath my wings I felt my spirit soar.<BR><BR><i>March 3rd 2003</i><BR><BR><BR>*******************************************************************<BR><BR><BR>Last night I strayed from my straight course,<BR>The winds of time caught in my sails<BR>And turned my ship to face the past<BR>Of long-forgotten buried tales.<BR><BR>I let the ocean’s swell take hold<BR>And drifted on its ancient tide<BR>Amidst the flotsam swelling back,<BR>Awaking memories deep inside.<BR><BR>A sheaf of parchment, weighted now<BR>With heavy padlock, ball and chain<BR>Caught fast in my searching eyes;<BR>I fished it out from midst the main.<BR><BR>The page was coarse, the ink so faint<BR>From whence the characters did spring<BR>And danced for me another time,<BR>Lifted their voices up to sing.<BR><BR>They told of friendships newly forged<BR>And those that now are sadly lost,<BR>Of lessons learned and skill profound,<BR>Ideas since honed, by time embossed.<BR><BR>Those ancient leaves they stirred my heart,<BR>Reminded me of why I’m here,<BR>Of who and what it is that counts<BR>And suddenly my path seemed clear.<BR><BR>I tucked those pages ‘neath my arm<BR>And turned again my ship’s course straight<BR>Towards the light of yonder dawn<BR>And all that I may yet create. <BR><BR><i>15th January 2003</i><BR><BR><BR>*******************************************************************<BR><BR><BR><i>Yes.. I admit it.. this next one is mine… originally posted in an alter ego.</i><BR><BR><BR>'You are cute, Matrim Calhoun,' the young maid said,<BR>'And your hair is especially black;<BR>But in thus permitting your own swooning thread -<BR>Don’t you think that TORC Boot Camp is slack?'<BR><BR>'It's containment,' Matrim replied to the maid,<BR>All thoroughly guarded and managed<BR>And with Private Joker, my trustworthy aide,<BR>I'm sure we can limit the damage.'<BR><BR>'You are cute' said the maid, 'as I mentioned before,<BR>'With deep eyes I'd willingly drown in;<BR>But I suspect you are misleading the corps<BR>And relishing it; proved by your grin.' <BR><BR>'What utter rot' said the tall Lord Commander,<BR>With a swish of his hunter green cloak,<BR>'I should lock you in the cooler for slander<BR>But I won't; I'm just too nice a bloke.'<BR><BR>'You are cute', said the maid, 'hotter than Orli<BR>And you leave my heart all a-flutter.<BR>Won't you hold me tightly and kiss me surely,<BR>For I hang on each word you utter.'<BR><BR>'My dear you know I can't,' said Mat with a sigh,<BR>'For my heart is pledged to another<BR>And she I shall love until the day I die<BR>Whether or not I become her lover.'<BR><BR>'You are cute', said the maid, 'one would hardly suppose<BR>That any woman could resist you.'<BR>And with that she began to remove her clothes<BR>To test if he was really that true.<BR><BR>'I have replied three times and that is enough'<BR>He said as his face blush-enveloped,<BR>'And from now with you I shall have to be tough,<BR>So get down and do ninety push-ups.<BR><BR><BR><i>(with heartfelt apologies to Lewis Carroll for my destruction of his verse)</i><BR><BR><i>August 21st 2002</i><BR><BR><BR>*******************************************************************<BR><BR><BR>An elf-maid sat on the banks of a stream<BR>In the midst of her much-loved forest home.<BR>As she dipped her toes in the cool water<BR>It ne'er crossed her mind she would wish to roam.<BR><BR>So she feared not the demands of her heart<BR>When she saw she was watched by a bold lad;<BR>Handsome and tall like the warriors of old,<BR>With striking gold hair, in mail was he clad.<BR><BR>In turn, the man was ensnared by her eyes<BR>Which held in their depths the light of the stars,<BR>'Twas a beauty he'd never dreamed could be<BR>Though he'd known many maids and travelled far. <BR><BR>Bewitched and in love he begged for her hand<BR>From her father, prince of this wooded fief.<BR>It took some persuasion to win his leave<BR>But in time the lovers convinced the chief.<BR><BR>Before the moon waned the couple were wed<BR>And in bliss and in hope their life began<BR>Together from morning, through noon and night<BR>They were most contented as wife and man.<BR><BR>But this new-found peace was not to endure,<BR>For terror was spreading hence from the west;<BR>Tales reached their ears of a dragon's rampage<BR>And fear that evil would there come to rest.<BR><BR>The knight bade farewell to his elven bride,<BR>Though the tears in her eyes made his heart bleed,<BR>And journeyed in search of the setting sun<BR>And his kin who there dwelt and were in need.<BR><BR>Apart for a year and day from her love,<BR>She wasted and pined, though was ever true,<BR>Until in desperate wise she set out<BR>To find him; a course they would come to rue.<BR><BR>She arrived at a busy coastal port<BR>In the haze of midsummer's afternoon,<BR>Where wild gulls and gannets wheeled overhead<BR>Seducing the elf to trigger her doom.<BR><BR>She inhaled the breeze and tasted the salt,<BR>Felt it move her spirit deeply within,<BR>Entice her down to the wind-swept shoreline,<BR>Summon her soul to the far horizon.<BR><BR>That night she lodged in an inn where a bard<BR>Sang and was strumming the strings of his lute,<BR>He told the story of a brave knight who'd <BR>Slain a dragon and died in the pursuit.<BR><BR>The elf enquired of the talented bard<BR>What was the identity of this knight.<BR>From the description she knew without doubt<BR>That her husband was victim of this fight.<BR><BR>The very next day she paid her passage<BR>West in pursuit of the Undying Lands.<BR>Though her heart still yearned for her husband dear<BR>In grief she'd not resist the sea's demand.<BR><BR>In sorrow she left the shores of this world,<BR>Her hopes and her heart shattered asunder.<BR>She made not a backward glance at her life<BR>And about her homeland did not wonder. <BR><BR>That same minstrel passed east to the wood realm<BR>Where he sang at a feast held by the king<BR>In honour of his returned son-in-law<BR>Who'd slain a dragon and caused rejoicing.<BR><BR>He sang them a lay of a beautiful elf<BR>With the light of the stars deep in her eyes<BR>Who drowned in grief had passed into the west;<BR>He failed to notice the son-in-law's sighs.<BR><BR>The singer was questioned into the night,<BR>Who was the girl of whom he sang so well.<BR>He told them her name and her intention;<BR>The lord and his son's visages turned fell. <BR><BR>Giving a cry of infinite anguish<BR>The husband knew that the girl was his wife.<BR>He fled from the hall and into the trees<BR>Ending his years with the blade of a knife.<BR><BR>Now if there's one thing you take from this tale,<BR>Learn caution before your pen runs too rife<BR>For poetic licence is well and good<BR>Until your lie of itself takes a life.<BR><BR><i>23rd June 2002</i><BR><BR><BR>*******************************************************************<BR><BR><BR>In the fourth age of Middle Earth, that was of Men,<BR>Dwelt a lady, Leoba of Ithilien.<BR>Her eyes were as emeralds, her hair chestnut brown<BR>And for parties she dressed in a dark green silk gown. <BR><BR>A musician of talent was this fair young maid,<BR>Who took the life of a bard as her chosen trade;<BR>Her enchanting song and the fiddle in her hands<BR>Bought her stay in halls the length and breadth of the land. <BR><BR>Though not by nature a warrior, she’d defend,<BR>To the last drop of blood, those she counted as friends<BR>And of these she placed first her bold and handsome knight<BR>Who had conquered her heart one St Valentine’s night.<BR><BR>Cheerful by nature, e’en though Fate seemed dark at times<BR>For her knight was troubled and for her home she pined,<BR>She was content to curl up with a book and read<BR>Or indulge her fancy for poetry and mead.<BR><BR>Now if in your wanderings you happen to see<BR>This emerald-eyed lady, do pause and feel free<BR>To greet her, swap tales, perhaps share a drink or two,<BR>For from just such chance meetings may spring friendship new.<BR><BR><i>March 2002</i><BR><BR><BR>*******************************************************************<BR><BR><BR><i>The River</i><BR><BR>I sit and watch the river pass<BR>Round rocks, through reeds; its voice calling<BR>To once known mountains, fells and woods, <BR>Lakes and streams and cascades falling.<BR><BR>‘O waters swift, from lands afar,<BR>Where go you next? Your goal is what?<BR>Why should your currents hurry thus?’ <BR>In haste they flow and answer not.<BR><BR>I would that I might launch a boat<BR>And share your journey, wild and free.<BR>With nowt to do but take on board<BR>The world your path could show to me.<BR><BR>I‘d wind through forests, close and dark<BR>All overhung with ivied oak,<BR>Banks hugged by thorny bramble bush,<BR>And watched by silent Sylvan Folk.<BR><BR>And then through broad expansive plains<BR>Of waving grass blown in the breeze, <BR>I’d drink deep of the fragrant air<BR>And drift in sleepy sun-soaked ease.<BR><BR>Set course past cities, proud and strong,<BR>On whose bright walls would glint the sun<BR>And great ships all moored thereabouts<BR>As my small vessel ventured on.<BR><BR>I’d row towards the river-mouth<BR>With just my boat for company,<BR>Whilst screeching gulls whirl overhead,<BR>I should heed the call of the sea.<BR><BR><i>March/April 2002</i><BR><BR><BR>*******************************************************************<BR><BR><BR>I crave yet dare not show desire<BR>For him whose heart I would was mine.<BR>I thought these wounds could heal in time<BR>Yet seemingly I n’er shall tire.<BR>Each time we meet I venture dreams<BR>That long-held walls would be no more<BR>And bitter pain might start to thaw;<BR>A futile hope, or so it seems.<BR><BR><i>January 2002</i><BR><BR><BR>

If *these* are the ones you hate the *least*.. man I'd STILL love to see the ones you hate more! These are awesome! (especially the Matrim one. snicker snicker. loved it)<BR><BR>But no, really, I think you've proven, in more ways that one, your skill at writing - especially having such *well developed* characters! <BR><BR>Looking forward to meeting them more in the various RP worlds <img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-wink.gif"border=0><BR><BR><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0>

Why, thank you Elengil; that is high praise indeed from one whose work I much esteem.<BR><BR>Here are a few more:<BR><BR><BR>*******************************************************************<BR><BR><BR>How can such concord reign within<BR>This serene soaring tomb<BR>Whilst outside voices shout that we’re<BR>Hurtling towards our doom.<BR><BR>A sundered choir sing different parts<BR>In incongruity<BR>And yet to me, witness to both,<BR>They sound in unity.<BR><BR>The stately Aves soothe the soul<BR>And whisper timeless hope<BR>For many here these healing prayers<BR>Will gift them strength to cope.<BR><BR>In bannered streets the beat of drums<BR>Make music base but pure,<BR>These pilgrims of a different sort<BR>Have found their own faith cure.<BR><BR>In pleas for peace all are as one<BR>Both in and out tonight.<BR>I wish I’d faith that all these words<BR>Could somehow make things right.<BR><BR><BR><i>March 25th 2003</i><BR><BR><BR>*******************************************************************<BR><BR><BR>Far off in the distance I see my errant muse dance by<BR>But I fear I cannot reach her no matter what I try.<BR>For I’m bound to the plotted path, a chain about my throat,<BR>Whilst all hopes of scribbling anything become more remote.<BR>The fragile fairy creature seems devoid of any clue<BR>How she ought to behave and of what she’s supposed to do.<BR>If I reach to try and grab her by the scruff of the neck<BR>Fate conspires to trip me up and ensure my chance is checked.<BR>She slips straight through butterfly nets and deftly avoids hooks<BR>And now she’s laughing at me and sending devilish looks.<BR><BR><i>March 10th 2003</i><BR><BR><BR>*******************************************************************<BR><BR><BR>When the day draws down its twilight veil,<BR>When night’s cold vanquishes the sun,<BR>When aches torment your weary limbs,<BR>And sleep’s embrace just will not come.<BR><BR>Cast up your eyes to heaven’s breadth <BR>Rest your soul in the sky’s starred sea<BR>Know that I’m thinking of you.<BR>See those stars and think of me<BR><BR><i>March 6th 2003</i><BR><BR><BR>*******************************************************************<BR><BR><BR>Suffocating in sugar<BR>Not a pleasant way to die<BR>But the crystals gather hither<BR>And they cloud the clearest eye.<BR><BR>Through the fog of disillusion<BR>Distances are skewed<BR>And when others beg to differ<BR>They are looked upon as rude.<BR><BR>I can’t see why you are grieving<BR>I can’t see why you’re so sad<BR>But I fear by speaking out aloud<BR>You’ll all think I’ve gone mad.<BR><BR>There’s so much in this vast world<BR>To cause bitter pain and grief<BR>But when those I love are spared<BR>All I can feel is relief.<BR><BR>Does that make me less human<BR>Than those of you here who sigh<BR>And churn out the sugared verses<BR>In honour of those who died.<BR><BR>I’m scared of what I’m saying<BR>And I’m scared of what you’ll think<BR>But the thoughts are sharp daggers<BR>Pushing me towards the brink.<BR><BR>I’ll shout it from the rooftops<BR>And to hell what people say<BR>If all I care is I and <BR>Mine are here another day.<BR><BR><i>February 3rd 2003</i><BR><BR><BR>*******************************************************************<BR><BR><BR><i>Fortune’s Fool</i><BR><BR>Drenched in Autumn’s lingering chill<BR>The moon was waxing bloodied red<BR>Its light flooding through sickly clouds<BR>Across the newborn’s auburn head.<BR>This sanguine light had left him cursed <BR>In love and life, the midwife said,<BR>She warned long ere his term was up<BR>He’d lose his heart, leave it for dead.<BR><BR>The prophecy laid down its seeds<BR>Through all the years of childhood play<BR>Gaining skill with sword and horse<BR>In dreams he’d be a knight someday.<BR>The crimson light it left him not<BR>Its flames enticed his soul away<BR>To dance the steps of high romance<BR>In fireside tales and songs and lays. <BR><BR>Those seeds sprang shoots as the years passed,<BR>The fields of youth gave way to stone<BR>The pride of Gondor’s mighty heart<BR>All gleaming ‘neath the winter’s moon.<BR>In one as ill as rose-rimmed dawn<BR>His wandering heart sought out its home<BR>And rested in her twilight hair<BR>Where evermore he’d dwell alone.<BR><BR><i>January 2003</i><BR><BR><BR>*******************************************************************<BR><BR><BR>Forget not yet our darling Mat,<BR>So dashing with his boots and hat<BR>Who by his charm this thread begat.<BR>Forget not yet.<BR><BR>Forget not yet the Cheeky One,<BR>Fount of grins, laughter and much fun,<BR>With heart of gold for which we swoon.<BR>Forget not yet.<BR><BR>Forget not yet the Bard of skill,<BR>Who's fallen for a Peredhil,<BR>Longing only to do her will.<BR>Forget not yet.<BR><BR>Forget not yet, o swooners here,<BR>Fealty to he of inscribed spear,<BR>So *bump* this thread for Matrim dear.<BR>Forget not this.<BR><BR><BR><i>(With apologies to Sir Thomas Wyatt and absolutely no mercy to Matrim. )<BR><BR>August 20th 2002</i><BR><BR>

Thank you Iavas my sweet. You're a talented writer yourself; a shame we don't get to see it on the boards.<img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-wink.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-smile.gif"border=0><BR><BR><BR><i>Edited to add another - which would work so well from Culanir's perspective, if only he were a poet.</i><BR><BR><BR>Your caress is bittersweet like lemons,<BR>A flail and wafer in one, I crave it<BR>With the thirst of innocence corrupted.<BR>These self-inflicted wounds are sweet with tears<BR>For everything that is and cannot be;<BR>Selfish union ever interrupted<BR>By too much faith in-between you and me.

<strong>Name</strong>: Karhusoturi. It means ‘bear warrior’ in the language of the far north.<BR><strong>Race</strong>: Men; Lossoth; belonging to the tribe called the Aerfaroth – the ‘Sea Hunters’<BR><strong>Gender</strong>: Male<BR><strong>Age</strong>: 44<BR><strong>Height</strong>: 5’4”<BR><strong>Family</strong>: His second wife is Hopeavesi (‘silverwater’), who is half his age. Father to two sons: Mustakuu (‘blackmoon’), 26; Pitkat Sormet (‘long fingers’), 21; and a daughter, Pimeäsüpi (‘darkwing’), 6.<BR><strong>Occupation</strong>: Fisherman, warrior, hunter<BR><strong>Skills</strong>: As well as his own peculiar dialect, he speaks the language of the Lossoth. Years of trading and fishing across Hûb Forochel have given him a skill beyond that of most of the Aerforoth, where other languages are concerned and Karhusoturi has a basic mastery of the Common tongue and that of the Snow Elves. He can sing and tell tales and in his youth he was known to dance, but as age has crept up with him he prefers to leave the legend-weaving to his wife who has a better voice. Karhusoturi’s other talents are those common to anyone living a hunter-gatherer existence.<BR><strong>Weapons</strong>: Exceptionally adept with spear, harpoon and knife, but a life subject to the ocean’s whims has left little need to develop the sophisticated machinery of war known to men of the south. Indeed, since the fall of Angmar, the northern wastes have been relatively calm and quiet; the threat coming from the natural world rather than the whims of those who would seek to control it.<BR><strong>Appearance</strong>: Shoulder-length hair, roughly cut and stiffened with the salt air; light brown that turns sandy and almost gold in the summer sun. His eyes are dark grey as the granite outcrops of the north-western archipelago, or as the sky under the Valar’s anger. <BR><strong>Clothing</strong>: His breeches, vest, tunic, thick boots, hat and mittens are all made of seal skin and fur and whale skin, and the leather of his belt is ornately tooled. Protection from the cold is of the essence, to the extent that youngsters are sewn into their vests for the winter months with a good solid layer of grease spread inside for insulation; it’s a boon that the cold keeps the smell at bay. His jewellery is minimal; it’s customary for the womenfolk to wear brightly coloured beads, but the hunters avoid anything that could distract from the stealth of the hunt and so personal decoration is considered to bring bad luck. However Karhusoturi wears a silver ring with a blood-red enamelled disc. It has been passed down through generations and is the mark of the head of the clan. <BR><strong>Personality</strong>: To outsiders, Karhusoturi seems cold and emotionally dead, unless measured in terms of self-appreciation. The casual observer would either presume he had been born without feelings towards other members of the human race, aside from what he could gain from them, or that a shard of ice had lodged in his heart and frozen his soul. Yet the men of his clan and his family rely on him utterly. He’s the strongest of the men of his age, still running his own boat and landing whales and his bravery in the face of deadly peril is beyond doubt. <BR><BR><strong>Background</strong>: <BR>Karhusoturi was born among the ice-flows of Hûb Falthol (the westernmost part of Forochel). His people - the Aerfaroth - are unusual amongst the Lossoth for their habit of dwelling within delved icebergs; each berg housing a clan in a maze of burrowed tunnels and halls. He was instilled with the perpetual motion of the ocean and for his first fourteen years of life, he never knew the sensation of walking on dry land. His time was spent in learning the legends of his kindred; of the great Whale-god who stalks and sinks unwary fishermen and of the Ice-breath of the East which locks the bergs into the ice-pack far into the fishing season.<BR><BR>His first opportunity to put to sea arrived with the spring of his coming of age. His father and his uncle ran the most successful boat of the clan and so Karhusoturi was bursting with pride when, out on the landing slope of the berg, the shaman anointed him with oil and his mother, with tears in her eyes, took back the guardian beads that had been his from birth - there was no need for such protection out on the seas where the Whale-god looked after the faithful (and punished those whose jewellery scared the catch). Then with the voices of the womenfolk lifted rhythmically in song, their little boat slipped out down the jetty and into Falthol's unpredictable waters. <BR><BR><BR><BR>

Im not even sure how I found this...but it was worth my time! <BR>Leoba!! Very nice to have seen these wonderous creations, "under girth of boulders secret"<BR>A nice thought reminded me of VIRTUAL ROOM that Leoba created in JAN02- SO I thought Id post it here for all to enjoy!! <img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0> Miss ya LEOBA!! <BR><BR>-------------------------------------------------------<BR><BR>Leoba - The Water Ring of Hidden Depths "Gaeros"<BR>The Fantastical Romanesque Room and More!<BR><BR>Leoba stood up and brushed the ash off her new green dress. She realised it had been a mistake to attempt creativity whilst wearing anything which could be considered decent. As usual, her quill had run away with her and she had spent many more hours than had initially been intended sprawled on the floor next to the fire, filling reams of parchment with her tidy script. Hoping that she didn’t look quite as unkempt as she felt, and hoping that her ink-stained fingers might go unnoticed, Leoba tucked the loose tendrils of hair behind her ears and went to submit her entry to the contest. <BR><BR>************************* BEGIN ENTRY ************************<BR><BR>The entrance is a Romanesque archway with many-columned-pillars on either side, each carved with tendrils of climbing plants and flora. As the tendrils wend their way up, they meet with myriad fantastical creatures; griffins, slender unicorns, eagles, noble centaurs and a small cat-sized dragon.<BR><BR><BR>Passing through the arch, you step into a soft and thick rug, spread from wall to wall, and dyed the delicate pale-green hue of budding leaves. To the right and on either side of the entrance, at the edges where the rug meets the inlaid wooden floor, the walls are lined with solid oak bookcases filled with works of history, literature, music and art. At intervals, they are set with iron holders, filled with beeswax candles. In the far corner, between the windows on the opposite wall and the right hand bookcase, is a spiral staircase, carved from oak with designs of intricate tracery and leading up to a minstrels’ gallery above the right-hand wall. There are seated 24 musicians, playing guittern, lute, recorder, fiddle, tambourine, bells, nakers and tabor. On the floor below stands a solid desk, spread with papers and brimming over with half-drafted writings. More books are piled up to the side of the chair. <BR><BR>The focus of the far-left wall is a deep ingle-nook fireplace, brick-built with the warm colour of Tuscan earth. It draws you in, with the ironclad hearth in the centre, seats set back in either side, facing the fire and a pot of hot-chocolate nestling close for warmth. The surrounding tapestried-wall, in hues of green and blue and gold, depicts themes from ancient tales; King Arthur and Excalibur, Taliesin the Bard and the legend of Cuchulainn. Huddled close are two enveloping leather armchairs with large feather-filled cushions, embroidered to match the wall-hangings. <BR><BR>The eyes are irresistibly drawn to the pair of large almost floor-to-ceiling windows, directly opposite the entrance. The bright sunlight of a spring-morning pours in, drowning you in its caress as you gaze out across purple moorland dotted with stars of yellow gorse. Beyond the distant cliffs can be heard the moan of the sea as waves dash themselves again and again against the cruel rocks.<BR><BR>***RING ACTION*** The sound of the ocean roused ”Gaeros”, the Water Ring of Hidden Depths, from slumber. It twisted around and around on Leoba’s middle finger, in response to the call of the sea. Bending all her will towards the ring, Leoba felt ”Gaeros” lose its silvery sheen and glow dark blue as if from within. An indescribable feeling of peace began to course through her veins and pervaded her entire body before spreading outward and filling the whole room. The quality of light changed and she was basked in the mystical sheen of sunlight filtered through the surface of the sea. http://www.geocities.com/divesnaps/PO/OP13.htm She took a deep drawn breath, inhaling the taste of the air which was reminiscent of the sea breeze on a summer’s day. ***END RING ACTIO<BR>************************** END ENTRY **************************<BR>

Enty<img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0> You just made my morning my fellow Bard - good to see you again.<img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-wink.gif"border=0><BR><BR>And that room description was - scarily - the first creative thing I had written since school, certainly the first I posted on TORC.<img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-shocked.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-smile.gif"border=0><BR><BR>Miss you too - and still cross that we never managed to meet and greet in Toronto.

<strong>Leoba!</strong><BR>Cold be sleep under stone,<BR>but I sleep, not alone.<BR>For I dream, glad and true<BR>of the works left by you.<BR><BR>What delight! Wake me not!<BR>Gleaming phrase! Weighty thought!<BR>Ah, my maid, who writes like this,<BR>these are feasts, not crumbs of bliss.<BR><BR>Bright blessings,<BR>Parm <img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-smile.gif"border=0><BR>

Ooooh, a new character! Where is he being played with? (If you had it above, please forgive me, as it is nearly 4 am here <img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-wink.gif"border=0>)<BR><BR>I just realized...your Numenorean (Maelgwn? Getting sleepier...bad time to post) and my newest character Nukumnaiaru were both born in Annuminas and are around the same age. Perhaps they knew one another? <img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><BR><BR>As always, I love reading your poetry, dear mum <img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0> <img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0> <img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0>